


shirtless

by Calacious



Series: Ho oku i [22]
Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Humor, M/M, No Plot/Plotless
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-05
Updated: 2016-06-05
Packaged: 2018-07-12 12:40:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7103842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calacious/pseuds/Calacious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spinoff of control, which is a spinoff of Ho oku i (I'm getting dizzy here). Inspired by a line within a story for control, as well as by a comment made by sherklock2g.</p>
            </blockquote>





	shirtless

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sherlock2g](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlock2g/gifts).



> In this chapter, Danny's nursing a headache, and Steve pops his head into the office to see if Danny's finished with his paperwork yet. He isn't. Steve's shirt is attempting to jump ship, and Danny's a little jealous, because he would love to show that tee-shirt what a pleasure it would be to cover Steve in a way that doesn't put him in the line of fire. 
> 
> I hope that you don't mind that I'm gifting this to you, sherlock2g.
> 
> Please forgive the errors, and the purposeful use of run-on sentences, and fragments, as well as some creative spellings.

Danny scrubs a hand over his face, and opens his eyes wide in an attempt to make the words on his computer screen stop swimming. His eyes are dry, and his head is aching something fierce, and this day just needs to come to a close soon before he does something drastic, like stab himself in the temple with a pencil. 

"You almost done in here?" Steve pops his head in through Danny's open door, and, unsurprisingly, the man's tee-shirt is already half off, the hem of it riding sideways across his ribs, revealing one of the man's numerous tattoos. 

Danny's never getting a tattoo. Ever. There’s not enough alcohol in the world to make him drunk enough to let someone near him with tiny needles and ink. 

Danny shakes his head, and pinches the bridge of his nose. He'd have gotten further along with the required paperwork if his head hadn't decided to stage a hammering protest part way through typing up his report about their latest take-down of a couple who were Bonnie and Clyde wannabes. 

He's been staring at the screen, blankly, unable to make heads or tails of the words that are staring back at him (even though he wrote them), for the past hour and a half, and Danny doesn't think that's going to change anytime soon. Not if his head and his eyes have anything to say about it, and apparently they have a lot to say about it. Something along the lines of: _ No fucking way man _ ;  _ I don’t wanna, and you can’t make me. _ His subconscious is a snotty pre-teen bent on making him miserable. All that’s missing is an eye-roll, a toss of the head, and a tongue pointing at him. 

Steve frowns and enters Danny's office, hands pulling at his ridiculously tight tee-shirt in an attempt to make it behave. It's a useless effort on Steve's part. The shirt has decided, as so many of Steve's shirts often do by the end of the work day (sometimes in the middle of the workday, or even mid-morning on a workday), not to back down in its quest to work its way off of the man's body. 

Danny doesn't get it, and finds himself staring dumbly at the tee-shirt where it's starting to bunch and ball up beneath Steve's fingertips. If he was that tee-shirt, he'd be doing his damnedest to stay affixed to Steve, relishing the heat that rolls off the man's skin, the ripple of muscular arms and chest, not to mention the rock hard abs. He would clothe the shit out of the man if he was that, or any other, tee-shirt. Hell, he’d jump straight off a rack and onto the man just to experience that skintight closeness. 

_ Fuck, and shit, and damn.  _

Danny’s eyes clear, and he leans forward, wanting to bargain with the tee-shirt. Maybe trade places with it for a few minutes. Show it that clinging to Steve’s body is not the chore it seems to think it is. Maybe it could finish the paperwork while Danny drapes himself across Steve’s broad chest.

“Danny, you okay there, buddy?” Steve’s voice is warbled, as though it’s coming to Danny from a megaphone miles away.

Danny’s mind blanks, and he blinks, and suddenly Steve's there, standing in front of him, the recalcitrant tee-shirt momentarily forgotten in his concern for his partner. Calloused fingers trace the rough edges of Danny’s stubbled cheek -- there hadn’t been time to shave -- and eyes, gunmetal gray they’re so dark and intense, regard him with worry. 

Danny's eyes are locked on a patch of tanned skin that the tee-shirt's managed to slip free of, though, and he licks his lips. Hardly dares to breathe, or touch, or think about what it is that he wants to do next, because they’re at work, and it’s broad daylight. Kono, Chin, and Lou are somewhere close at hand, and Danny’s pre-teen subconscious is smirking at him. 

He can feel the man’s heat bleed into him, and Danny wonders if he  _ has _ managed, in some weird metaphysical way, to momentarily switch places with Steve’s tee-shirt, ( _ twin wonder powers, activate, into the shape of...Steve’s tee-shirt! _ ) because he can feel the slick of the sweat that he sees glistening on Steve’s perfectly toned abs on his own skin. It’s dizzying, and Danny’s lost in a single bead of sweat that’s gathered on one of Steve’s ribs and has started to roll down the rib-cage. 

His head's buzzing, the headache abating, and forgotten as Danny loses himself to the Siren call of Steve's bare skin. His fingers twitch and Danny's only dimly aware that he's moved when he feels a shudder, an intake of breath, beneath his lips, and tongue as he licks at the rogue bead of sweat, and suckles at the heated skin. 

Danny tastes gunpowder, and the salt of ocean, and the ozone of sun, and he realizes that he shouldn't be jealous of the damn tee-shirt when Steve, fingers far steadier than Danny's, pulls it up and off, tosses it somewhere behind him, and Danny's able to touch, and kiss, and taste his lover sans the soft cotton barrier. Steve would never shove him off like that and discard him by the wayside. 

_ Fuck being a tee-shirt when I can be a leech.  _

Danny kisses his way across, and up Steve's stomach to his chest, nips playfully at the man's pectorals, marveling at the way that Steve shivers, and his back arches, and he doesn't even complain when Danny shoves him up against his desk, the keyboard to his computer digging into Steve's ass. 

The computer complains at the maltreatment as words that aren’t words are added to the few actual words that Danny had managed to type before the onset of his headache.  

Danny doesn’t care as the computer continues to make all sorts of protesting chirps and beeps. Steve’s ass and hip type merrily away as Danny gets his hands and mouth on what that dingy tee-shirt had the audacity to forswear, and worships the well-sculpted body that had been hidden underneath the flimsy fabric.

“Danny?” Steve breathes out, bites his lip and moans. 

His hands land on Danny’s shoulders to anchor himself, and Danny doesn’t want the world around them to start spinning again, or time to move forward until he’s finished this heady exploration of Steve, shirtless, skin slick and muscles pulsing to the beat that Danny’s ravenous mouth and fingers are setting for them. 


End file.
